i was a little drunk when i wrote this for you
by The Star Room
Summary: Clint Barton sits in his apartment with too many cans of beer, and writes Natasha a letter. He doesn't stop himself when the words get jumbled. Maybe he should have stopped, but ... well, he just couldn't. / Clintasha.


Dear Natasha,

Don't kill me for this, okay, Nat? But I have to write it, because Kate said it's good to write out your thoughts and feelings, and maybe I've had one too many crappy cans of beer, and maybe I should just lie on my couch and wonder where everything went wrong. But I happened to have a pen and a paper on my coffee table, so here I am, writing to you.

I'll probably have a hangover tomorrow, which sucks, because I can't see straight when my head's pounding, and I can't shoot straight when I can't see straight. And I can't miss, Nat, because then I won't be who you need to be. Have I ever been who you need to be? Was I once, when we were younger, and I didn't live in a dying apartment building with a tangled VCR and too many doubts about everything?

Kate's helped a lot, she has. I love her, I really do. You'd be proud of me. Not like - not like, sex love, or marry love, but like - I love her. I love her because she makes me want to be better, but I, I don't think about her mouth and kissing it or anything. Just her smile and how I want to protect it, I think. I don't make sense.

Nat, are you still reading? I think it's been an hour since I started this letter. I drank another beer. You hate beer, I know, but I taught you to enjoy it, or to pretend to enjoy it at least. It's actually pretty awful, so I understand where you're coming from. I have the money to buy expensive wine like the kind you like, but it always seemed too much of an ordeal, you know? Are you still reading, Nat? I need you to keep reading.

I'm alone tonight, and that's not what bothers me, because I've spent a lot of nights alone and I bet there's a lot more to come. I used to spend all my nights alone in the circus tent, because Barney would leave to smoke or something, and I would listen to the winds blowing the flags outside, and after that I don't really remember? My head hurts, I can't focus. Where are you, Nat? Where have you been?

Wait. Do you like being called Nat or Tasha? Or Natalia? Did I ever find out your real name? All this time, have you been playing games with me? I know I'm a goon, but I'm smart, right? Maybe not. Maybe your name's Kayla and you told me one night when we slept tangled in each other's sheets and I just missed it somewhere along the way. Sounds like me. I forget a lot of things. That's me, your friendly neighborhood idiot.

Nevermind, I guess that's Peter.

Nat, would you ever marry anyone? I guess that's a weird question, yeah - a super awkward one, considering my divorce papers are sitting in front of me with coffee stains on them. God, I'm a mess. How did I get here? What happened? Kate's gone, Lucky's gone - are the Avengers going to kick me out? Can that happen? I didn't kill anyone. Well, I mean, I did, back in the old days, but - you know all about that.

I'd kill for some coffee right now.

Okay, fine, I asked the stupid dumb question that's on my stupid drunk mind - would you marry someone? Like, really marry them? For real, for real? Not the Bolshevik guy whose name sounded like it belonged in a Russian porno? I know you married him, but that didn't count because you were brainwarped by a bunch of crazy communists. Would you marry a guy like - well, I dunno, like me? Not me, I guess. I'm a mess and I'd kill for some coffee. I'd kill to see you right now, Tasha, I really would. I'd kill for you.

I wouldn't kill anyone innocent, though. You wouldn't want that. Maybe I wouldn't kill at all. I don't like the sight of dead bodies in the street. I'm trying to get better, Tash, I promise I am. It just isn't happening fast enough.

When you were with Bucky, what would you whisper in his ear at night? You used to drive me wild, you know. Talk of far away places and your dreams and ambitions, and the things you'd seen, things you'd done, the things you'd do to me if I stayed in bed just a little longer ... I'd stay in bed with you for months, if that's what you wanted, Nat. Not because of the sex - although it was to die for, yeah - but because I like the way your hair falls down your shoulder when you sleep, and I think you like domesticity more than you admit, and maybe I was tired of being an assassin and wanted to be yours, wanted to give myself to someone instead of to blood and confusion and hatred. I wanted to be something more, and I always was when I was with you.

Aww, I'm drunk, Nat.

Sorry about this letter. You'll forgive me, won't you? I'm not done writing yet. I need to tell you ... To tell you all the things. God, where are you, Nat?

I'm great at boats, remember? I drove you all around Venice on that little boat and then I drove you around Sydney, and you sat on the front of the pontoon with your legs crossed and your lips in that twisted smile that could predict the end of the world. You looked back at me, and you were gentle. Natasha Romanoff, for once, was gentle. Is that possible? I know it is. Even the empty Budweiser in my hand knows it's possible. Even though I'm pretty sure empty beer cans can't talk or think or anything. I don't know, Nat, I'm pretty drunk. Maybe the walls will start talking next.

Ha, I just remembered something. Remember that time you knocked me out while we were having sex? God, what a crazy time. How funny. Embarrassing, but funny. I woke up and you'd made me pancakes as an apology. I freakin' love pancakes.

Anyway, I - I don't know why I'm writing this. I just know I think of your hair sometimes, and how much I'd love to run it through my fingers one more time, and how I miss the way you'd kiss the inside of my shoulder blades, because that's where I'd get sore the most. And it's stupid, because you're on your own, and I'm on my own, and we have to take care of our own, but, Nat, good God, what I would do to have you back again, to have you be my partner again, in love and in war. I don't care what you've done, Tasha, who you were or what's happened since our fight in Syria, but ...

You know you're still my best friend, right? That'll never change. And I think I'll still want you when I'm dead, or when you're lying in bed dying of old age, because nothing but old age or cancer could ever kill Natalia Romanova. I certainly never could. I never meant to hurt you, not once, not ever.

I'm an idiot, I know that. I pretend these missions mean more than they do, and that the bow in my hand doesn't ever shake, or that my place in the Avengers is rocksteady. I know I could ruin everything. Maybe that's what I'm doing now.

But you - you always believed in me. You knew I could do good, could bounce back from hardships and prove my will. Will you help me bring Kate home? And Lucky? And Barney and Bobbi and Jess and Tony and Steve and all the people I've wronged in this world where it's so easy to do wrong? Will you help me, Nat? You always could help me. You always wanted me to be better.

Aww, Nat. I'm drunk.

I'm so sorry. You don't have to read this letter. Sorry if you already did. I won't be surprised if I find you strangling me tomorrow morning. Wouldn't be the first time. Remember that time in Budapest? Ha. Good times, good times. My blood was in the kitchen sink for a good hour. Took you forever to wash the stains out of my clothes. But you kissed me goodnight anyway.

Anyway, uh, while I'm still here, and while my pen still has ink ... I hope you know I love you, Natasha Romanoff. I always have and I always will. Seriously. Never stopped loving you. It's a well-kept secret, but I'm crazy about you and I still am and will be and ... Nat, where are you now? Why aren't you here with me?

Beer sucks, Nat. Don't drink it.

I love you, Miss Romanova. Don't you ever forget it.

Going to go brush my teeth and crash now. I can't remember if I'm writing a letter or an email? Oh, a letter, duh. You don't use pens when you write an email.

Sorry, Tasha.

Love you, Tasha.

Good night, Tasha.

Love,

Clint Barton

P.S Please don't read this. Ugh, I'm a goon. I should have a trick arrow for burning stupid messages. Maybe I do. Should probably check that in the morning...


End file.
